


First Words

by merryfortune



Category: Over the Garden Wall
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post canon, Sad Ending, Spoilers, contradicts canon kinda, implied lesbian sara, soul mate identifying mark au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:18:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4816508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merryfortune/pseuds/merryfortune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wirt and Greg have escaped The Unknown and are trying to get back into the rhythm of things. It's mostly easy. In fact, people see them as heroes for surviving their ordeal. It's too bad no one believes them when they try and talk about their journey into The Unknown.</p>
<p>But also, Wirt is convinced Sara is his soul mate. That is until realisation strikes him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Words

   Beatrice reached over the table and stretched her arms. They were sore and stiff. Flying had been a huge toll on her body.

   Her mother approached the table with a large silver platter mounted with glorious food fit for human consumption. ‘Enjoy your dirt and worms.’ her mother joked.

   'Moooom,’ Beatrice whined. Her siblings giggled and her freckly face blushed.

   She reached over the table again. She had almost forgotten what her arms had looked like. They were pale, splattered with freckles, flecked with small cuts and of, least importance, the navy blue, twig-like writing running around her wrist. Beatrice had forgotten what it read, not that she had really bothered to memorise it in the first place however.

   What in the world is going on?”

   Funny, Beatrice could have sworn that Wirt had said that to her during their initial meeting in The Unknown. He had followed up by calling her “weird”.

   Nobody knows what the writing on arms meant. The writing often spanned various colours, and sometimes even languages. Some people had simple phrases on their arms written in inelegant handwriting. Others had extravagant writing and uncommon phrases. It varied from person to person, although for the “unlucky”, there was overlap.

   Beatrice sneaked peaks at the arms of her family, except for her father as his arms were covered by sleeves. Her mother had the phrase “Hello lady, would you like a shoeshine?” whilst her youngest brother, Billy, had inverted comas on his arm which may indicate he had a quote. His read: “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” Beatrice liked the sound of that. She had something rude on her arm instead. Nobody seated at the dining room seemed to have the same thing written on their arm. It was quite a marvel. Although, there were similar colours present.

   The mysterious, lingual patterns were forever but considered ugly and without purpose despite the claims of mad philosopher’s: romanticised nonsense about soul mates mostly. It was more fashionable to cover the sentence gracing your arm. But in this private and celebratory environment, nobody particularly cared if the blemish had been left uncovered. Everyone was just happy about being human again, despite the marks the scissors had left.

* * *

 

   Wirt was stiff and sore but most of all, he was confused and conflicted. His pilgrimage through The Unknown had been real; it had to be despite all other claims. It had to be. It’s what he wanted.

   He was on the cusp of being released from the hospital. A few minor formalities were in place first but his mother and step-father would handle them. His only job was to say goodbye to Greg. Greg was going to stay a little longer as he was smaller and more fragile, supposedly. He had all the energy of a fire cracker. The doctors admitted that but he had to stay for observation as it would be better to be safe than sorry. It was only for one night longer.

   Wirt got his things and said goodbye to Greg who was playing happily with the other children in the paediatrics ward. ‘Bye Wirt, see ya later alligator.’ Greg announced.

   ‘Yeah bye.’ Wirt scuttled off.

   He got home and slumped onto his bed. He rolled over and closed his eyes.

   Had it been real?

   It had to have been. How else would Jason Funderberker the Frog have gotten a hold of the magic bell in his stomach? Such a bell was not something a frog of the marsh would happen upon and eat.

   Wirt hoped that Beatrice and her family were fine. And that Lorna and Auntie Whispers were doing well. And that the Woodsman had made the decision to kill the Beast and that his daughter had been rescued from the Beast’s clutches in result. Wirt just hoped that everyone he had met in The Unknown were safe and secure.

   Slowly but surely, Wirt began to give into the theories surrounding him. It made sense. The people he prayed for were figments of his imagination. The journey he, Greg and Jason Funderberker had taken had been a dream.

   His mother didn’t let him go back to school immediately, same for Greg. She waited a day after Greg came home from the hospital before she let them go back to school. Wirt rang Sara and told him that he wouldn’t be at school until next Thursday so she told him that on Wednesday, after school, she would help him catch up. It was their promise.

   Wirt didn’t like remaining at home for longer than what he considered necessary. He thought that he and Greg were fine despite their “brush with death”. He was ready to go back to normalcy. After all, The Unknown had been a dream. That’s what everyone told him and what Wirt had come to accept with faux willingness.

   Sara came over on Wednesday like she had promised. She came with the work Wirt had missed and the tape Wirt had given her. Although, Wirt remembered that as her taking it against his wishes but he didn’t mind. He wanted to listen to it with her.

   'So, are we gonna listen to this?’ Sara teased as she waved it in front of Wirt’s dark eyes. He blushed. He fumbled and tried to convince her not to listen to it. He failed. She was keen on listening to his mix tape. She joked that it was going to be “hot like fire”. He thought it was going to be nerdy like a pocket protector.

   Sara slotted the tape into the player and pressed the triangular button. They waited a moment before there was a click. The sound of a clarinet wafted from the player’s speakers. Wirt couldn’t move. He was red and flustered; frozen with trepid embarrassment. Sara smiled. ‘So this is you, huh?’

   ‘...Yeah...’ Wirt admitted, his voice was small.

   'I love it.'

   They idled the afternoon away. They did their homework in the middle of a train set and under an invisible ceiling of poetry and swoons of a clarinet.

   It wasn’t until after dinner that Sara left. She gracious that Wirt’s family had let her stay and have a meal; and that her parents had allowed it. She thanked them and as it was dark, Wirt and his step-father had to drop her home. It was a short drive and no problem.

   'Bye Wirt.’ Sara called.

   'Bye Sara. Good night.’ Wirt called back. He and his step-father waited until Sara was inside her brick house before they left.

   'So Sara, huh?’

   'Maybe.’ Wirt replied, embarrassed.

   'What was the first thing she had ever said to you?’

   Wirt didn’t particularly want advice from the man who had torn his mother away from her soul mate. Or at least that’s how Wirt saw it; hoped. It was hard to judge as his mother’s wrist read a particularly bland phrase in moss green: “Hey, how you doing?”

   During the 1960’s it became popular belief, with some science behind it, that the mysterious occurrence of having a sentence naturally written on your wrist in varying handwriting styles and colours that that sentence is the first one said to you by your soul mate: your perfect friend and lover. Up until now, the words had been considered an ugly nuisance like a wart. But even now, fifty years on, this was a controversial belief to uphold.

   Wirt liked to believe in this soul mate stuff. His parents did, including his step-father. In fact, most the town liked to believe. The opinion might vary based on country and location.

   Wirt decided to humour his step-father. He rolled up his sleeve to read off of his wrist; acting like he hadn’t memorised the phrase. He recalled the moment he believed was the first time he had talked to Sara. They had both been kindergarteners. It had been during art class and Wirt was having trouble picking out the right colour for his project. He had been drawing trees and birds. Sara had been drawing a more urban landscape. Both artworks were heavily abstract given their age. Wirt had asked for help with a pout and Sara had replied with: “Maybe I can help you?”

   It was weird. He could almost hear Beatrice’s voice in the words on his wrist. But she didn’t exist so he was being silly.

   Wirt read the phrase. His step-father whistled. ‘Well howdy, that’s a meet cute if I’d ever heard one.’

   'Y-Yeah.’ Wirt mumbled. He admired the slanted, pastel blue handwriting on his wrist. It was delicate and lacy, trimmed with feminine curls. It was almost old timey. Wirt mumbled some context about how they had met.

   The following day, Wirt went back to school. He dropped Greg off at his elementary school where he was welcomed excitedly. They all had questions about the hospital and, more importantly, The Unknown. In a small town, like theirs, as soon as something unusually dramatic unfolds, everybody knows within and a matter of hours but stories got twisted and the only source to be trusted were the accounts of those who had lived it.

   Wirt got to the high school and more people than usual said “Hello” to him. He wasn’t used to being this noticed. It was nice though. He was no longer the invisible geek with the weird name. He was Wirt: survivor of death and trauma now.

   Class started not long after Wirt had walked into the school gates. He sat through home room and when class officially started, he was able to sit next to Sara. Jason Funderberker also joined them and he sat on Sara’s left.

   'You look good today.’ Wirt mumbled to Sara.

   'What, sorry? I missed that.’

   'Nothing. I said nothing.’ Wirt said.

   'You look good today; like always of course. I wasn’t trying to imply that you look bad... other days. You always look good.’ Jason Funderberker rambled.

   'Aw, thank you.’ Sara accepted.

   Wirt seethed. He tried not to but how could he not? Perfect Jason Funderberker had struck again.

   'Silence, start taking notes!’ barked their teacher.

   Wirt could have sworn that their teacher sounds vaguely like the fiancé of the Southern Belle teacher he had met in The Unknown. But that was preposterous. The Unknown had a dream so it was more likely that in “The Unknown” their teacher Mr Brown... was also Mr Brown.

   'Do you get this question, Wirt?’ Sara whispered. She pointed to the fourth question. Wirt had found it easy but that’s not why his eyes widened. That wasn’t why he had begun to stutter.

   'Oh, it’s okay. I’ll ask Jason.’ Sara said, thinking that Wirt’s reaction was because he had also choked at that question. Jason turned around and began explaining the question’s criteria to her. Wirt watched helplessly but that was almost okay.

   Wirt couldn’t believe it. He had spent so long in the certainty that Sara had been his soul mate that there weren’t words to convey how disappointed and heart-broken Wirt was by the sudden turn of events. Her handwriting didn’t match what was on her wrist. Her handwriting was upright and wiry.

   'Random question, Sara, but what’s your favourite colour?’ Wirt asked.

   'Red, why?’

   'N-No reason.’

   From then on, class dragged on at a snail-like pace. Wirt carried a broken heart with him. He didn’t have the words to convey the heaviness he felt. It was created from being shattered, from shame and embarrassment.

   Wirt was grumpy to say the least by the time he had to go and pick up Greg. Greg had been puffed up with pride by all the questions and attention he had been given by his peers. He was like a peacock.

   ‘Everyone thinks I’m some kinda hero!’ Greg shouted. He pulled out the rock with a face on it. He tossed it into the air. ‘And that’s a ROCK FACT!’

   'Didn’t you want to return that to Old Lady Daniel?’ Wirt asked. He didn’t want to sound irritable but it leaked into his voice.

   Greg caught his rock. His lips curled outwards. He had bonded with the rock.

   ‘Yeah, I better.’ Greg deflated.

   'Honesty’s the best policy, buddy.’ Wirt tried to lighten the mood. Not just for Greg but for himself too. There were more important things in this world besides soul mates and romances. Ideals such as honesty and reliability were way more important than flighty and finicky things that weren’t even confirmed to be one hundred percent real.

   Wirt walked Greg to Old Lady Daniel’s house. They walked past her white picket fence and up to her green door. Wirt knocked using the knocker and they waited. Greg stood in a state of extreme nervousness.

   'Hello boys.’ Old Lady Daniel answered when she got to the door. She spoke sweetly.

   'Hello Young Man Daniel.’ Greg yelled.

   Wirt resisted the urge to bang his head against a wall.

   'Oh you.’ Old Lady Daniel tittered.

   'Greg has something he would like to give back to you.’ Wirt prompted.

   'And what would that be, dear?’

   'I stole this from you when you gave me candy.’ Greg blurted out. He whimpered with tears in his eyes and he waited for anger.

   Old Lady Daniel bent down and gave Greg her most sugary smile.

   'That’s okay, dearie. It’s only a rock, you can keep it if you like but thank you for coming forward about it. How about I reward your honesty with a sweetie?’ Old Lady Daniel suggested.

   Greg smiled and Old Lady Daniel winked at Wirt.

   'You can have one too.’ She shuffled off and soon came back with two toffees. She gave one to both boys.

   ‘Have a good day, young men.’ Old Lady Daniel farewelled them and the two step-brothers walked off.

   They walked in silence but eventually, Greg had to say something and make conversation. He couldn’t stand how quiet it was. ‘Do you miss Beatrice?’ he asked.

   'A little but it’s hard to miss someone who wasn’t real.’ Wirt replied.

   'How can you say that?’ Greg shouted, outraged.

   'It’s the only logical conclusion.’ Wirt loudly retorted.

   Greg shouted mildly mean words at Wirt who tolerated it. They barely strung compared to the self-inflicted wounds Wirt was giving himself over his lies. He missed Beatrice more than he wanted to admit. Wirt felt like a patchwork doll of fragmented emotions sewn together by lies. He felt awful; even more now that Greg was mad at him.

   Wirt was the one to make peace. When they got home, he slapped together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a side of Oreos as his offering to Greg who was administering the silent treatment. The food quickly earned Greg’s affections back.

   As soon as Greg was stuffing his face in the kitchen, Wirt snuck out. He locked the house and hoped he would be back before his mother. He didn’t want to get in trouble for leaving Greg behind. Wirt just wanted some space so he could think things out. The idea of visiting the cemetery was attractive so he went there.

   He didn’t realise that Sara followed him. She saw him pass her house and she knew just by looking at him that his destination was the graveyard. She was worried that he was on the cusp of doing something incredibly stupid.

   Wirt found it weird being rebellious. It made him uncomfortable. He walked past the ornate iron gates reading “Eternal Garden Cemetery”. There was a cool breeze whispering secrets to him but he wasn’t cold. Wirt stumbled around the graves.

   He found one grave that read “Quincy Endicott”. He recognised the name as belonging to the wealthy old man he, Greg, Beatrice and Fred the Horse attempted to steal from. The discovery horrified Wirt. He trembled as he read what was engraved on the ornate, marble grave.

   'What does this mean?’ Wirt howled.

   'Wirt, are you okay?’ Sara asked. She approached him from behind and spooked him.

   'Why are you here, Sara?’ he asked. His words seemed to mush into one.

   'I’m worried for you. Please tell me you’re not trying to find this-this “Unknown” place.’ Sara worried.

   'No, no, of course not. Only answers.’ Wirt assured her. He then went onto explain his inner most thoughts on his circumstances. He didn’t cut out anything back. He told her everything, even how certain he had been that she was his “one”.

   Sara listened sympathetically. She nodded her head and tried not to fidget with her bomber jacket.

   ‘Sounds complicated.’ she mused. ‘Not to be Debbie Downer or anything but I moved into your class during second grade. It must’ve been some other girl who had told you that.’

   'I’m starting to think that too. But I think it was more recent than, uh, kindergarten.’ Wirt replied.

   'Really? I mean broken hearts are total bummers. I want you to get over me soon. It’d be better that way.’

   Wirt rolled his sleeve up. Sara copied. They showed each other the writings on their arms.

   ‘Is-Is that Jason Funderberker’s writing?’

   'No, I don’t think so. He likes the colour yellow anyway.’ Sara replied.

   Her arm read: “My, my, aren’t you pretty?” The handwriting wasn’t masculine and written in lilac.

   Wirt’s eyes traced over the writing on his arm. He could almost hear Beatrice’s voice tinge his thoughts.

   No, it couldn’t be possible.

   'Do you think Beatrice is here?’ Wirt asked.

   'The bluebird?’

   'The tea guy is.’ Wirt stepped aside and showed Sara Quincy Endicott’s gravestone. Sara stepped back. Her understanding of The Unknown was that it was Purgatory. After all, it was populated by dead people, animals could talk and Wirt and Greg had gotten there by nearly dying.

   Sara’s stomach churned. She felt sick, revolted even. But she pushed it all back.

   'Did Beatrice have a surname?’ she asked.

   'No but she did have a huge family.’

   'Wanna see if she’s here?’

   ‘I think I’d like that.’ Wirt lied.

   They searched the entire graveyard for a nameless Beatrice from a nameless era. But when Wirt found the grave of a middle aged spinster named Beatrice Burdette dated for the Regency period of the 1800s, he knew he had found his Beatrice.

   'This is her.’ Wirt said to Sara once they had regrouped.

   'What makes you so sure?’ she asked.

   'The bluebirds.’ Wirt replied.

   The grave wasn’t overly decorative. It was faded and blooming with moss. The etchings of text and images were eroded but still legible. At the gravestone’s crown was a pair of flitting bluebirds. The grave read: “Here lies Beatrice Elise Burdette, may she fly high in her dreams”. Wirt shook as he saw her cause of death had been recorded: stoned for blasphemous beliefs.

   Wirt’s eyes watered. His lips trembled and in slow heaves, he began to bawl. Sara hugged him from side on. She tried her hardest to comfort him.

   ‘I just wish I had flowers.’ he wept. He slipped from Sara’s grip and collapsed at the edge of Beatrice’s grave.

   Through his tears, Wirt noticed something peculiar between the blades of grass at the foot of the gravestone. There were curved indents that seemed to form a larger picture.

   Wirt crawled closer to the gravestone. He batted grass away. There was a drawing of a worried boy in a conical hat. It was him. There was a small message next to it that read: “I’ll wait for you”.

   Wirt began to sob harder. It wasn’t fair. How was this possible? His soul mate was dead and during her life, he hadn’t even been born yet as two centuries separated them.

   They had been united on the brink of death and in between life, wandering in a world of hopelessness and dark fantasy. The autumnal splendour of The Unknown was evil. It was tragedy, death and lies.

   It wasn’t fair.


End file.
